


could be that it's my imagination, but i think i hear you now

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Feeding Kink, M/M, No Aftercare, Office Sex, Power Imbalance, Trans Male Character, canon typical mind control/mind reading/use of the beholding, consensual (but watch out), fanon typical weirdly religious leaning undertones in the way elias talks to/about jon, hate sex but not really, sort of - it's statements. not food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:50:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22621912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: “No,” says Jon, “I’m not going to play along with this.”“I think you will.”Elias is right, of course. He always is. He doesn’t even need to tell him to, he never does, he just makes these suggestions and sets things up and Jon just falls in his lap, spitting and scratching but ready and willing. Like he’s fighting himself more than he is fighting Elias.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 28
Kudos: 241





	could be that it's my imagination, but i think i hear you now

**Author's Note:**

> to note - there is informed, explicit consent but it's [makes a vague gesture at the mess that is jon and elias' relationship]. elias is manipulative. compelling is used (although not to influence consent and used with explicit verbal consent, it is used to make jon push past his limits). i decided against the dubcon tags but you could make an argument for those. this is not enthusiastic love-filled sex in case that wasn't already obvious, there is a clear power imbalance. 
> 
> the word clit is used to describe transmasc genital parts
> 
> title is from alpha desperation march by the mountain goats

Jon steps into the room without knocking. 

“Close the door, please,” says Elias mildly. 

Jon does, almost automatically, and immediately after narrows his eyes. Elias can feel the hateful look trying to burn a hole into his head without looking up at him. “I didn’t _make_ you do that,” he says. 

Jon doesn’t seem to believe him. Elias skims the surface of his thoughts briefly. All he gets is contempt. He has to smile a little bit at that. 

“You wanted me for something,” Jon says, impatience bleeding into his voice.

“Ah,” Elias says, as if reminded of something, “yes. I did have something for you.”

“What?”

“Just a few statements.”

Jon reaches a hand towards him expectantly. It comes across as a power play thing, Jon standing by the door with his arm stretched out towards Elias, sitting in his chair several meters away. As if he expects for him to get up and hand them to him.

Elias leans back in his chair, folding his hands together. “Ah, actually, I think I would like for you to read them here.”

“Here?”

“In my office, yes.”

Beat of silence.

“With you in here?”

Elias smiles. “Yes, of course. Where would I go?”

“No,” says Jon, “I’m not going to play along with this.” His voice is unwavering. Elias is so fond of him, so proud, so _pleased_. He’s so strong. His Archivist. 

“I think you will.” He’s right, of course. He always is. He doesn’t even need to tell him to, he never does, he just makes these suggestions and sets things up and Jon just falls in his lap, spitting and scratching but ready and willing. Like he’s fighting himself more than he is fighting Elias. 

“Fuck you,” he spits out, resentment and anger in his eyes, but he walks over. He must be hungrier for this than Elias had thought he would be. “You’re despicable, Elias.”

“Yes,” Elias agrees readily, “You’re quite correct.” He kicks the leg of his desk lightly to get the leverage to push his chair back a little bit. Jon isn’t tall enough to tower over him - even with him sitting down he barely has to tilt his head up to see his face. 

“Aren’t you going to let me sit?” 

Elias smiles, again. Ah, yes. This is going to be his favourite part, he can already tell. The part where Jon pretends he doesn’t know what he’s looking for and Elias plays along, just to make him squirm.

“Yes,” he says, “where are my manners. So sorry. Sit, please.”

There’s a pause, and Elias watches as realization settles into his eyes.

“What?”

“Sit, Jon.”

Elias knows he knows what he’s talking about. He knows it quite well. He doesn’t bother to look inside him for this information. 

“Tell me no, Archivist,” he says, and he doesn’t quite compel him into it, but Jon shivers like he’s forcing him to speak anyway. 

“Fuck you,” he says softly. “You know I’m not going to say no.”

“Delightful,” Elias says, and he really does think so. He gestures at his lap and Jon sits down, stiffly, uncomfortably. He doesn’t correct his posture or fidget into a more comfortable position, awkwardly folding his limbs into a caricature of the vague idea of sitting down. 

“Relax,” Elias breathes. “You’re so tense.”

Jon scowls, bares his teeth. “Careful,” he says, “don’t push your luck.” Elias supposes that’s fair.

“Statements,” Jon reminds him woodenly. He’s leaning forward slightly, bracing himself on the desk by his elbows. Elias leans backwards languidly. He wonders about grabbing him by his slender waist backwards, against his chest. 

“In the drawer,” he says. “I think you’ll like them.” 

Jon always does. He’s hungry for these ones, the carefully selected documents – substantial, important ones, not always long but always packed full of information. Fill him up like a satisfying meal. Elias can’t wait to watch Jon fill himself up with them.

Jon shuffles through the documents for a minute before settling on one. It’s one of the longer ones. Greedy, Elias thinks, greedy, his Archivist. Straight for the main course. 

He takes a trembling breath and begins reading. Elias can tell he’s been starving, these past few days, nothing new or juicy coming in, none of the older ones satisfying his hunger. Needy. He feels very badly for him for a second. Poor Archivist. Not being fed well enough. Surely he deserves this. 

He lets a few sentences pass before he snakes his arms around Jon’s waist, hands reaching for his belt, the button of his trousers. Jon stops reading abruptly. He takes a single surprised, shuddering breath.

“Continue,” Elias says, silky, “don’t mind me.” 

He unbuckles Jon’s belt in one continuous movement. 

“Unless you _mind,_ in which case, do feel free to stop me.”

Jon closes his eyes for a long second. The steady urgent buzzing in his head as he fights the urge to continue reading is without a doubt very distracting. His breathing is ragged. Elias holds still, hand where it stopped, holding onto the buckle. 

“No,” Jon says finally. 

“No…?”

Jon snarls. “You fucking know what I mean.”

“I think I’d prefer to hear you actually say it, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t stop,” Jon says, bratty and petulant, “is that what you want to hear?”

“If you mean it,” Elias says mildly. “In which case, yes.”

Jon turns his to face him, and his face is dark with fury. He looks like he’s preparing to strike out and bite. They stay like that for a few tense seconds, and then Jon diverts his eyes. A few more seconds pass before he turns back to face the desk. His shoulders slump a little. His tense thighs relax, just a little bit. Elias thinks about pulling him backwards again, having him nestled against his chest, properly in his lap. Maybe in a bit. 

“Right, then,” Elias says. He gestures back at the papers on the desk. “As you were.”

Jon goes back to reading, shaky, his resentful tone shifting to his reading voice. Lovely. Elias quite likes it. 

He unzips Jon’s trousers, slowly, and then pulls them down, Jon shifting easily to make it effortless for him. He doesn’t pull them off, just tucks the waistband under his thighs, leaving them bunched up and out of the way enough for his purposes. He lays his hand over the front of his underwear, two of his long fingers coming to rest over where his clit is already hard, easily feeling over the thin fabric, not quite doing anything but feeling at first – fingertips gliding over it, the fabric soaking through rapidly, making the motion easy. 

“Next one, if you’d like,” Elias says when Jon finishes reading the statement. There’s a heavy silence when Elias slips his hand inside Jon’s underwear, but then Jon swallows and shuffles his papers and starts the next one, voice level and steady again. 

They go on like this for a while. Jon reading with his voice only wavering between the statements, straining for more stimulation, crying for something to fill him up, hips bucking to meet Elias’ hand, gasping to compensate for what he couldn’t do while he was reading. He’s slick and hot and _beautiful_, Elias can tell, he’s seen him – gorgeous, his Archivist. And he’s in his lap now, reading these statements, feeding himself with them, all for him. All for Elias. His heart swells with fondness. 

Elias doesn’t bother listening to the contents of these statements. He’s read them before. All he hears is the cadence of his words, the level of his voice, the breath in his throat threatening to quicken and become shallow but not being allowed the chance to. He rubs him through his words slowly, lazily, and when he takes a shuddering, heaving breath after yet another long, _delicious_ one, Elias finally plunges two fingers into him. He cries out, just like he always does, surprised and sensitive and sweet and so, so lovely, and Elias stretches him on his fingers and kisses his neck, says “Continue,” and Jon does. 

Between the fifth and sixth statement Elias pushes on Jon’s back lightly to make room for him to unzip his own trousers. Jon tenses up for just a second, and then Elias pulls him backwards, finally, so he’s properly in his lap. “Continue,” he whispers into his ear, and Jon shudders, hard, and Elias can feel him grind against him in his lap, onto his hard, heavy cock, just a little. Hungry. Greedy. Elias feels so affectionate, just for him. He slips in a third finger, and Jon’s breath comes out ragged and shallow. 

Jon starts the next statement. He clenches around Elias’ fingers so perfectly, so tight, dripping down his hand and onto Elias’ thigh, and he spreads his fingers slowly, carefully, feels him flex and adjust and open up, frustrated and distracted and trying to make enough room in his mind to understand what he’s feeling with clarity. Elias looks into his head and feels how _good_ he feels, sensitive, head buzzing with the information he’s getting, and he groans like he’s the one being split open on thick, long fingers, aimlessly floating in a sea of sensation. 

He breaks a little bit. He pulls his cock out of his underwear, and a whimper escapes out of Jon and into the statement. “Focus,” he says evenly. He lifts Jon up by his hips – the smaller man going up way too easily, he really needs to eat more, he’s decidedly getting a little too thin, Elias thinks – and carefully, painstakingly lowers him onto his waiting cock. Jon takes a deep, shuddering breath, his grip on the paper going white-knuckled, but he keeps reading, and Elias fucks up into him, hips moving slow, Jon’s bony body pressing into the tops of his thighs, against his own hips. Wet warmth from Jon’s own inner thighs where he’d spread his wetness gets on Elias’ trousers, and when he thrusts into him he can feel the wet slip of the wet spot make Jon almost lose his balance. 

He feels _exquisite_ – wet and warm, and Elias wraps both arms around his waist, leaning his head on his shoulder, kisses his warm shoulder. It gives him a good angle, and he holds the position for a minute before pulling back, straightening his spine again. He wonders if he’s hitting the spot that makes Jon take in sharp breaths when he presses down on it with his fingers. He could find out. He decides not to. It’s fun to have some things remain a mystery. 

They’re eight statements in when Jon starts getting uncomfortable. He fidgets. He takes his eyes off of the stack of remaining papers and looks back at Elias with a feverish look in his eyes. 

“I feel full,” he whimpers, “why do I feel full? What are you doing to me?”

Elias pets over his sweat-slicked hair and delivers another pointed thrust that makes his Archivist moan, long and lovely. “I’m not doing anything. It’s all you. You can’t just take and take and take and not feel any consequences, Archivist. You ought to know that by now.”

Jon shudders in his arms. He smells like sweat and cedarwood. 

“Please continue. You can see there’s still quite a few left.” Jon moans, a stuttering sound, and his eyes scan over the documents, struggling to focus. 

He’s so full, Elias can tell. He’s becoming so easy to handle, whatever anger and dark thoughts he was holding onto vanishing out of his body as he’s filled with information, cataloguing these words and sentences, struggling to make more room in his head for them all. Elias knows what it feels like. Not quite unpleasant, but decidedly strange to experience. Jon’s head lolls back to rest on Elias’ shoulder and he allows him to rest, for just a second. 

“Jon,” he says, quiet, loving, “you know what you need to do.”

Jon moans desperately, and Elias takes pity on him, rubs his clit for him – he’s being so good, after all, taking it all so well. He clenches around Elias’ cock pleasantly, and he bucks up into him, once, twice, jostling his light body in his lap. Maybe another time he’ll kiss him while they do this – push his tongue into his soft, lovely mouth. Lick his teeth, maybe. He has a thought of shoving his fingers in his mouth and using them to press his tongue into the bottom of his mouth, hard enough to make him gag. Maybe he should make him suck on his fingers while he shares with him a memory of how good it feels when he’s fucking him, every movement electric and good and right. Maybe. He catalogues this for later.

Jon looks at the statement on the desk for a long slow moment and then he turns to face him again, a helpless look on his face. His bottom lip quivers slightly. 

Elias is prepared to take over for him, read them out loud _to_ him instead, if need arises. He’d been sure he’d be able to take all twelve on his own, though. Maybe he’d overestimated him. Maybe he’s not quite ready yet. Disappointment rushes through him, and he puts his hands on Jon’s cheeks, and just for a second hate flickers in Jon’s eyes, and Elias can’t help but smile. He can do it. Doing him proud. 

He starts out shaky but quickly settles into the statement, and after a few seconds his voice gains the normal rhythm, tone, the same intense quality he always has, even as his body flops and moves bonelessly in his lap, Elias holding him up with one hand on his ribcage and the other on his waist, Jon holding himself on his tired arms. Elias wonders if that’s going to backfire on him, eventually. If he’s going to lose control of his arms, slip and hit his face on the desk. Elias certainly hopes not. 

After finishing he takes a second to steady himself. He almost wants to hold his stomach, Elias can tell. He keeps almost bringing down his hand to rub it, brain having trouble conceptualizing and locating the source, the type of feeling. Vague fullness. Not his stomach, but it doesn’t make sense to him that he could be full like this anywhere else. 

“Tell me,” Elias says, silky, “how does it feel?”

“Full,” Jon gasps out, “I feel so full. It’s so much. I didn’t know it could feel like this, Elias, I can’t, I can’t think – it feels like there isn’t room for _me_ inside of my head. Please. Please.”

It makes Elias’ hips buck involuntarily. Jon barely reacts. He’s half-crying, half moaning.

“You’re going to get used to it,” he promises, so, so gently. Jon’s body goes boneless, the upper half of his body collapsing so that he’s partially lying on the desk. Elias reaches his hand down to rub his clit, comforting, rewarding. He wants so badly to show him off, to anyone, how good he’s being. He deserves for everyone to know how brave he is, how strong. How powerful he is. What he’s made him into. He kisses the back of his neck lightly.

“Jon,” Elias says. Jon shudders weakly. “Three more.”

Jon starts to cry. Elias kisses the top of his head, long, rough. He’s working so hard, and Elias loves him so. He’s willing to be patient for a bit. He lets Jon catch his breath, stop crying, petting his ribs over his shirt and kissing his neck. “It’s so much,” Jon says, finally. His voice sounds steadier. 

“I know you can do it,” Elias says. 

There’s a pause. 

“Tell me,” Jon says, quietly. “Make me.”

Elias inhales sharply. White-hot heat shoots through his body, and he has to grab Jon by the hips, just to grind him down on his cock, just once. 

“Read the statement, Jon.” Jon’s breath catches and he looks down, struggles to focus his eyes, and then he’s stumbling over the words, trying to make space for them in his head, and Elias feels lightheaded with love when Jon gets back into the rhythm. God, he’s so perfect. He’s made him so perfect, and he’s _his._

The last few words slur together, too. Jon’s breaths come out ragged and sharp and he makes loud, whining, pitchy noises into them. He turns to look at him with noticeable effort and Elias grabs his cheeks again, and softly, softly, says “again.”

Jon cries out, whole body convulsing, and then he’s reading again, faster. Faster. Like he’s trying to run, like if he just gets it done it won’t feel like it’s as much. It won’t work, Elias thinks, but he’s going to find out for himself, he’s sure. 

When he’s done this time he doesn’t turn to face him again. He pants. He makes a wet, sad sound, and Elias reaches to wipe the tears from his cheeks. The last one is short. Elias almost feels bad making him finish, but it fills him with excitement at the same time, the fact that he can do it, no matter how laboriously. Perfect. He touches his hand to his forehead and shows him. Jon makes a small noise, a broken whiny sound, like it’s ripped out of him, something Elias finds lovely. So lovely. 

“Jon,” he says quietly, “shall I tell you again?”

Jon doesn’t say anything. Elias pets him patiently. A moment passes. Elias starts fucking him again, slowly, having paused to let him catch his breath, and Jon lets him. He might be tired of the statements but his body is still eager for Elias, spasming and tightening when he fucks him, shivers running over his skin. 

Jon takes a deep breath, finally. He looks at the remaining, final statement, and Elias feels his relief rush through him when he realizes it’s barely half a page. He can tell he’s not going to have to tell him to start, and he doesn’t know if he’s more proud or disappointed. 

Even half a page is too much in this state, Elias knows, but taking Jon past his limits has always been a cherished pastime of his, taking him and pushing him until he thinks he can’t continue, and then proving him wrong. He stills his hips to allow him to grasp onto any shred of focus he can find, without the added sensory input. 

Jon starts his statement. He is quiet. He is perfect. 

He feels so good in his arms, shifting ever so slightly. Elias takes this as his cue to resume to his second favourite pastime, and Jon can barely keep his eyes on the paper with Elias fucking him fast and rough and so goddamn good, and Elias can tell how much he _loves_ it, his cock filling up his body while all of this misery and upset and plain _knowledge_ that he’s forcing into his head fills him with static he doesn’t yet know how to handle or deal with, his feelings bleeding out and into Elias’ mind. 

He closes his mouth around the last word soundlessly a few times. Elias comes as soon as Jon gets the last syllable out of his mouth, vision going white. Jon goes boneless in his arms, and Elias grabs him by the waist, one hand already reaching to rub him, fast and relentless, and it takes him so little time to come as well that when he clenches around Elias – hard and long, and then several times again when Elias keeps going through his slowly passing orgasm – he flinches with overstimulation, his softening cock too sensitive. 

They sit for a while. Jon leans against him heavily, pulse fast and irregular, and eventually Elias helps him lift himself up on his feet between the desk and Elias’ legs for long enough to tuck his cock back into his trousers. He collapses back down into his lap, and then Jon is quiet for a long time, and Elias doesn’t speak either. He reaches over and around Jon to reorganize the statements into a neat pile again, moving Jon like putty out of his way whichever way he wants to. He wishes he was like this always – pliant, easy, agreeable – but he knows it’s good he isn’t. He wouldn’t be perfect if he was. 

“I hate you,” Jon says, finally. “Fuck. I hate you.” 

“I don’t know if you do,” Elias says. He doesn’t really need to look into it. He knows this already. Jon’s still got both his trousers and underwear around his thighs, the weight of his belt threatening to pull them all the way down to his ankles. There’s a wet, slick spot on Elias’ trousers from where Jon had rubbed against them. 

Jon sucks on his lips for a second. He looks woozy. Elias hopes he doesn’t try to walk off just yet. He’s thinking, he can tell, but it looks like it feels like slogging through mud. He rather hopes he doesn’t hurt himself thinking too hard. 

“Right,” says Elias, eventually, “Back to work.” 

“Back to work,” says Jon, mockingly, still unmoving, limbs bent in ways that don’t look very comfortable, leaning heavily on the desk with his cheek squished against it. 

Elias says nothing. His face threatens to break into a smile. He projects it on Jon. He punches him in the chest, weakly, and Elias thinks, _could he be more perfect._

He thinks, probably. He’s already so close, and he’s bringing him closer day by day, push by push. He will make it happen, and he loves him so much for it.


End file.
